


The thief of justified visions

by Legitconcrusher



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Action/Adventure, Flashbacks, M/M, Minor Injuries, Multi, Paranormal occurrences, Past Abuse, Post-Canon, Post-Predacons Rising (Prime Movie), Rebuilding, Refugees, Slow Build, Trust Issues, temporary alliances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7987069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legitconcrusher/pseuds/Legitconcrusher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war for Cybertron has drawn to a conclusion, and the mighty former leader of the Decepticons has subconsciously banished himself away from the steadily growing civilisation and returning refugees. Yet an "unfortunate" turn of event leaves the former warmonger embarking on a journey of redemption across the charred remains of Cybertron. Rationality will be tested, cunning will be analysed and ultimately "change" will be evaluated. For not even the terror of Kaon could willingly announce himself prepared to ensure the safety of a traumatised youngling all the way to Iacon...with a bothersome grounded Seeker riding his rear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The thief of justified visions

Two ruby spheres of fire gradually scanned the horizon as blackened shapes licked the rusty metal surface; dawn. Not only was it the dawn of a new orbital cycle, but the dawn of a new era, one that was to be filled with peace and tranquility. An era that was to drown out the seemingly never-ending silence, which had slashed deep lacerations into many; including himself…

Despite the “glorious” and long awaited revival of the robotic planet, it did nothing notable or significant to him. For once again it appeared that he had become the lesser of his race, an aimless wanderer, scavenger, in search of his next meager refuge.

Home.

He’d never liked that damned word; it left a foul taste in his intake that slithered off his glossa and into his innards. They were for the high castes; egotistic and haughty Cybertronians who had cared very little for his welfare, so much so that the welfare system was virtually non-existent. In the end, the richer you were, the swifter you fell…no matter your age. But age determined nothing. It was a negligible number and created boundaries and limitations upon a person. Of course, age had never stopped him from slaying mechs and femmes in the pits, nor did it stop him from drinking in the enchanting whimpers of an Autobot soldier attempting to weakly dislodge his mighty blade from their very spark chamber. Rivers of the bright blue liquid would pool over his retractable sword and stir his inner monstrous desires from their slumber. His victim would’ve then noticed that sickly and repulsive glint in those vermillion orbs and then…

His intakes stalled and wheezed as he tried to eradicate those lingering thoughts as well attempting to keep what little half-digested energon in his tanks. The past was no longer relevant, but it would never leave. Reminders would be plentiful and they would latch onto him; feed off his subconscious and gnaw their way through into his conscious.

Those ruby spheres of fire flickered where once they had flared as they fell upon the destruction before him. Misty hallucinations of the past danced in front of his mangled frame in a taunting manner. Screams of grief and wails of distress swarmed his audio receptors; the wind had an outlandish way of mocking him.

He did not believe in spirits.

Growling in a flurry of disbelief, the large mech trudged forward while paying no mind to the “non-existent” clouds of mist billowing either side of him. It was relatively evident that the past wanted him to remember. Every meaningless repugnant life that had ended upon his very servos, would they soon become the chains to drag him into the chasm of delirium? He halted his swift motion, letting the scale of the calamity sink deeply into his processor. Above him, lengthy clouds littered the pale blue sky and they observed the lone mech before them. Even the roaring sun was eager to see the following unfolding events and rapidly pierced its way through the clouds for a better view. The potent mech felt the sun’s rays glide swiftly across his frame, a comforting gesture, and in any other circumstance perhaps such a gesture would have been genuinely welcomed.

But not here.

Not ever.

For before the clouds and the sun stood a miner, the lowest of the low. Where his voice went unheard and unacknowledged. Where every orbital cycle he managed to endure was spent avoiding the unforgiving grasp of the mines’ watchmen and the mine owners. Where he became fully aware of the horrifying punishments that his fellow miners had to withstand if they “stepped out of line”.

His optics, those fearsome unfaltering vermillion balls of rage, had seen more devastation, destruction and delirium in one diun than any higher caste Cybertronian had seen in a lifetime.

Before the clouds and the sun stood a gladiator, a bloodthirsty warrior who slaughtered conceited combatants and reduced them to a whimpering mess. Where he entered the dreaded pits of Kaon to die an honorable death, but instead gained a sudden understanding to value and appreciate his life. Where he earned his name and identity for the very first time; finally becoming someone rather than a mere shadow. Where he became acquainted with a higher caste mech who had sought out his presence for longer than he would ever know.

Those sickeningly bright cyan optics made him question not only himself but also why he had caught the smaller mechs’ vigilant optic. Why had he felt the need to saunter up to the very Pits of Kaon and demand his presence? Perhaps demand was a marginal overstatement. Orion Pax was not a mech to make demands, to give out neither orders nor decrees. He didn’t think it possible to feel so out of place next to the tiny mech but yet so aggravatingly gravitated towards him. Never had he encountered someone at that point so full of seemingly boundless knowledge that he could simply sit for joors and listen as Orion “educated” him on a given topic. But the majority of the time it was not the education that made his processor twirl in thought, as a matter of fact, it had been Orion himself. They both had shared a common aspiration to change the world and drain the injustice, which had spread itself out into every corner of the once glorious planet.

However, Orion Pax could be at times exceedingly credulous towards him. It was almost as if the archivist forgot what a gladiator of Kaon was capable of. How easily he could have caused great harm upon Orion, the chances of that had always been too high.

Then came the betrayal, that painful treachery, that left him appearing like a fool before the High Council. They glared at him; those forbidding optics had bore intensely into his frame. In a whirlwind of humiliation and rage, he revealed his then new goals and ambitions for Cybertron and left, his handful of underlings that had somehow managed to squeeze into the building, trailing obediently behind him.

The sorrow and wistfulness that was etched deeply on Orion’s faceplates would be forever embedded in his processor.

“You carry the weight of many long slain soldiers”

What?

His lengthy train of thought swiftly “de-railed” as his optics went wide in a perplexed fashion.

That voice…

Was this the beginning of the torment, the ominous suffering that was, so he believed, to ultimately shred his sanity? An unfamiliar sensation snaked its way down his spinal strut leaving behind an icy residue. It was here where the once fearsome warlord “wavered”, debating intensely whether to ignore the rumbling murmur and treat it as a mere figment of his imagination or rotate himself around. Albeit he was not one to deny himself a challenge regardless of the unknown repercussions

“Why do you hesitate?” The voice re-established itself, the rumbling murmur reduced marginally to a more gentle tone. So this was not a trickery of the mind. The mangled mech took a step back within inside himself, the question and tone catching him off guard. However, that cursed statement and its inflection ignited a flame of vengeance in his spark chamber and for a moment, he prepared to swivel around and charge blindly at the beholder of the voice. But he wouldn’t, as such an unknown false move was unbefitting of his knowledgeable Gladiator tendencies and experience. Gladiators, though barbaric and wayward, never turned their backs upon another Cybertronian they saw as intimidating or a threat and despite the fact he had yet to observe the others’ faceplates, if there even was anyone there at all, he did not doubt that they could sense his indecisive attitude. Be that as it may, cunning was his self-proclaim arrogant trait and to be cunning was exemplary within the Pits’ walls.

“I experience no such qualm towards you…your lack of physical presence I merely find to be...inadequate”

The reply was swift.

“Even in exile, your wits are as sharp as ever…Megatron”.

A devious smirk befell the former Warlord’s faceplates, the gleam of his vermillion optics intensifying. Exile…how bigotry of a Prime, a figure of utmost purity and prestige, to have the temerity to suggest he was enduring banishment. Waves of serenity flowed gracefully in the once tense air; the restive air, and whether its goal was to ease the discomfort, it was ignored…greatly. Darkness suddenly enveloped the plateau as the clouds above shielded the rays from the sun that soothed the war-hardened ground below, now leaving it cold and raw. A cool breeze swam around the mangled mech and he tensed at the unwanted foreign touch.

“What do you want of me?” Megatron spat, his words like daggers upon a spark slowly yet viciously ceasing to be. “Your presence, is that not torment enough?” Megatron felt a familiar sensation bubble fiercely within the pit of his tanks and it was a sensation that forced countless memories into his processor, none of which were welcomed or amiable.

Rage.

“I humbly request your ear...”

“…And what would a Prime be so compelled to say to me”.

The hostility, animosity, and resentment that were smothered thickly over the former warlord’s words would have been enough to startle anyone into submission. His intimidating disposition and demeanor also radiated his disgust to the same effect, elongated talons gradually forming tight fists at his sides. But yet, his audio receptors picked up absolutely no sign of nervousness in the Prime’s vocals; there were no uncertain murmurs of disbelief.

“Before I explain myself fully, I struggle to comprehend where you stand. You affirmed that you have been detoured from oppression and claimed you cease to want to commit it, yet now you lumber across this plateau with no set destination and each stride you take is evidence that you carry an unnecessary weight; a burden. But of what burden you bear, I cannot fathom it…”

Without warning, Megatron felt the restraints of his formidable bubbling rage rupture and the abrupt sentiment of pure malignancy, anger, rose rapidly to the surface. His newfangled frame writhed, his balled digits threatening to lacerate the palms of his servos as a flurry of powerful yet obscure electromagnetic waves darted outward from within him. Did Optimus, in all his merry wisdom, struggle to perceive why the former warlord had removed himself from society? Had the Prime become blind? In the heat of the moment, the mangled mech turned swiftly on his heel and allowed his infuriation to flow freely from his intake.

“Of what burden do I bear? Can you hear yourself, Prime? My servos, our servos, are tainted and branded with the spilled energon of long slain foes and allies. What parts of that do you not see? Were you not fighting the same war?” The former warlord bellowed as he felt his anger begin to ebb; Megatron felt his internal cooling systems stutter and wheeze at the intensity of the sheer pressure they had just endured; the twitch of the recalibration of his optics was lengthy. The sight he witnessed, however, after said recalibrations, shed light in places that the former warlord had not dared to delve.

His optics, vermillion pools of anguish and rage, widened to the lengths of those many great years younger than himself. The strong grasp of confusion and bewilderment wrapped itself tightly around his frame as he, one of the most feared mechs and imposing gladiators in the entirety of Cybertron’s history, appeared stunned.

Before him stood a spirit.

The ghostly transparent figure of the last of the Prime’s stood right before him, those bold blue optics glistening strongly in the darkness of the sun’s short absence.

And then came that booming voice that spoke volumes of authority and demanded instant respect that Megatron had beheld time and time again as Optimus had addressed his minions, each by their name, to thwart Megatron’s schemes.  
“You know as well as I, Megatron, that redemption is paramount following such a time of paranoia and crisis, and the civilisations that will flourish and thrive will be ones of incomprehension towards...the true and immense scale of the fallen. Cybertron too shall learn to lick its wounds and move forward to great prosperity" The great Prime announced, those bold narrowed optics seemingly gazing into the mangled mech’s very core and scrutinising its concoction of contents. But the former warlord said nothing back in response to the great former leader of the Autobots, his own vermillion optics scorching in incomprehensible disbelief.

How? How was it possible for the last Prime to be standing right before him? Had he not perished; sacrificed his own life to return the Allspark to the Well? Had Megatron not observed correctly? Optimus had opened the Allspark’s container and released its mystifying contents into his own spark chamber while the chaos bringer had taken his frame captive. Unicron had been so focused and fixated on removing the last of the Primes from existence, that he had foolishly allowed his goal to eradicate his rationality.

The imbecilic action that led to his downfall…

Megatron was awoken from his train of thought when the Prime began cautiously edging towards him in what appeared in an attempt to not startle him.

“I understand that my presence isn’t what you anticipated and that your beliefs regarding paranormal occurrences have never been steadfast, but your optics play no illusion,” The Prime halted in front of the mangled mech, assessing the minuscule changes in his EM field. “I stand before as I have done for millennia and my time here…now, is drawing to a close.

There was a pause; one long enough to drown out the pleas of mercy from the past that his processor was so insistent of replaying.

Gradually, the former warlord straightened his posture as he began to ponder just how the Prime stood before him. His optics were hesitant to fall upon the Prime again after gawking at him as if he had been enslaved by a revolting and ravaging virus, but slowly they came to settle on the transparent figure of Optimus Prime. A sudden grip of uncertainty clung tightly to him as before him the great Prime began to smile, small but…meaningful. Megatron found it relatively hard to dismiss the fact that it wasn’t all that long ago that the distance they now currently shared would have resulted in some form of witticism on his behalf, followed by a further form of conflict; barbaric or “wholesome”

…wholesome by their standards…

“How?” Megatron stated plainly, his voice too soft for his liking as the muttered word slipped from his intake. “How is it that you have come to acquire this form in such a short time after your demise?”

Optimus’ bold and bright blue optics flickered and his small smile grew; he fondly looked up at the sky to meet the sun while it maneuvered itself into sight.

“It is my duty as a Prime to watch over my people and to not only ensure their safety but to see them flourish in our newly revived home. This form I carry does not allow me to physically interact with others however, it does not stop me from showing myself to a select few. In essence, those whom I feel need guidance, those who doubt themselves or perhaps struggle with the many obstacles that life presents; I can provide them with aid…”

“I do not require the incompetent aid of a librarian…”

“I’m aware, Megatron,” Optimus said, a pinch of chagrin peppered over his reply. “However, I believe there is, in fact, someone who requires yours…”

The mangled mech blinked his vermillion optics a few times and cocked his spiked helm to one side while he processed the millions of queries which now cluttered his processor.

In curiosity, Megatron took a step forward. “ What do you mean?”

Almost instantly the Prime swiftly flung one of his servos out in front of him, and from that very servo, a bizarre mist began to form as it started to envelop the pair. The former warlord, who was taken by surprise, growled lowly through his tightly clasped denta as the abnormal fumes erased the area around him. His optics were a flurry of unrest as he tried to comprehend the current affair but finally, his gaze fell upon the Prime, whose optics had a sickening energetic glow. Was this some form of a cruel joke?

“You best have a good reason for this necromancy, Prime!"

“I assure you, old friend, that everything will be explained momentarily. As for now, I strongly suggest you remain placid…calm…” Optimus replied, trying to sound the slightest bit enthusiastic to ease Megatron’s discomfort. The Prime thought deeply regarding the most effective yet reasonable way to inform the former warlord of his next chapter. The task, he knew clearly, was not easy and his doubts regarding it were guiltily numerous.

“Megatron,” His voice sounding gruffer than he had wanted. “You have been chosen to perform a duty which represents chastity and honor. It will require your witticisms and your both physical and mental strength to overcome it. Although I am aware that the idea of atonement does not satisfy your tastes currently, this duty, if performed efficiently and correctly, could grant you that very gift. Our very life-giver has given me his holy word that all who forgive will be forgiven and thus he has entrusted you to perform this duty with the utmost care and consideration. Megatron…I wish you luck”

What?

Duty!

What duty?

A swarm of questions unexpectedly bombarded Megatron as he felt his very spark rate soar to heights he had never experienced. He was about to object to what he believed to be nonsense, but he suddenly found himself rapidly hurtling towards the…ground?

The ground!

He clawed at the air around him hopelessly and could only imagine how utterly pathetic he looked as his elongated digits strained from the abrupt erratic movements. The mangled mech’s struggle intensified and by the time his optics locked onto something he could only presume was solid ground, he collided heavily into it and lost consciousness…


End file.
